The One That Got Away

by Leigh Himes

  “I just can’t decide.” Mirabelle sighed and thrust the final two contenders under my nose. “You pick.”

  I studied them again and pointed to a pale blue silk embroidered with darker thread in the shape of chrysanthemums.

  “Wonderful. That’s the one I preferred too,” she said. “I’m so glad we have the same taste. When you and Alex are to have Bloemveld, I don’t want you sleeping every night in a room with drapes you despise.”

  It took me a minute to understand that she meant after she was gone and we inherited the place—a thought that gave me pause on multiple levels. Not only did it mean my children and I would live in a mansion where the gatehouse was bigger than the apartment I grew up in, but it assumed a future for me in this world decades down the road, something I hadn’t yet considered. Every morning I woke half expecting to be back in Grange Hill, with Jimmy. But as days turned into weeks, and the weeks into years, would that always be the case? Or would that life fade and become hazy—like a half-remembered dream?

  “Dear?” Mirabelle waved a hand in front of my face. “You left us for a moment.”

  “Sorry.”

  “We were thinking about this one,” she reminded me, pointing to the blue silk. “For the master bedroom.”

  “It’s perfect,” I reassured her.

  She smiled and turned back to the shopkeeper, who was holding an enormous pair of gleaming scissors, hoping to cut before either of us changed our minds.

  Mirabelle turned to me with a question. “Help me with the math?”

  “Three yards? Five?”

  “Total, dear, not per window.” She seemed annoyed, pulling out a piece of paper from her purse and jotting down some numbers.

  How many windows could there be in her bedroom? And how wide and tall was one window? And what about seams and a hem? I felt like she expected me to know this, as if calculating drapery yardage was included in some van Holt instruction manual I received on my wedding day. Little did she know I had never purchased decorator fabric in my life and couldn’t tell you how many inches were in a yard if my life depended on it.

  I deflected her question with a question: “Maybe you should ask your interior designer?”

  “Interior designer? Heavens no. I never use them,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “I thought you knew that.”

  I started to reply, but she looked away, almost wistful. “Besides, I rather like sewing, always have. Did you know before I married Collier, I had two years at Moore College of Art studying fashion design. I was going to be the next Edith Head! But then I had Alex and, well…” Both her voice and her smile faded.

  I wanted to tell her I understood. Things change; life sometimes has other plans. Instead, I leaned over and helped her finish the math. We came up with seventy-seven yards total, plus another five “just in case.” The shopkeeper turned bright red with excitement.

  Out on the sidewalk, the noontime sun blindingly bright after the dark room, Mirabelle paused to put on oversized seventies-style tortoiseshell sunglasses while I slipped on my gold Ray-Bans. Then she began to stroll south toward Queen Village, her medallioned flats silent on the grimy sidewalk. I thought she was looking for her driver, but she pulled me close and linked her arm with mine. We fell into step together.

  She was remarkable, my mother-in-law. In my entire life, I’d never met anyone more effortlessly refined, with a personal style that was so timeless yet approachable. It was as if Queen Victoria, Grace Kelly, and Michelle Obama had been blended together and then poured into a crisp blue shirtdress and Valentino flats.

  “Now. Abigail. Are you all right?” she asked, her brow knit with matronly concern. “Let me know if you need to sit down or take a break.”

  “I’m fine. Why?”

  “Alex tells me ever since the accident you’ve been…” She paused, searching for the right word. “Different. Not yourself.”

  I tensed, suddenly nervous. Did Alex suspect I was an imposter? Did she? I tried to relax, imitating her careful tone: “I can assure you, Mother, I’m perfectly fine.”

  “Well, if you say so. But the Brindles thought you seemed out of it on Sunday. And Aunt Tickle said you insulted her.”

  “She did? Oh, my apologies. I was just having a bad night. I was exhausted.”

  “Of course,” she said, with a wave of her hand. “Just promise me you’ll be careful. I think we both know we can’t have any more distractions. Alex is far enough behind as it is.”

  We turned right, onto a narrow street blanketed with yellow leaves. I started to speak but she pretended not to hear, continuing, “And I’m concerned about Alex. I was with him all day on Monday and he seemed so tired. Probably just concerned about you, my dear, but still…”

  Funny, Alex hadn’t mentioned he’d seen her. If she wasn’t so gracious, and if her arm wasn’t wrapped lovingly around my waist, I would think she was making a point of letting me know that she had been with him, not me.

  “No, he’s okay,” I replied, noting that he certainly hadn’t seemed tired last night. Or the night before. “But honestly, I don’t know how he does it. It’s so much pressure.”

  “Well, you know Alex. Such a hard worker. And such a good boy. He always does what he’s told.”

  I couldn’t tell if she meant that as a compliment or a failing. Either way, I felt a chill run up my spine.

  She continued. “Still, Abigail, too much is riding on these next few days.” She stopped, turned to me, and peered over the tops of her sunglasses. “I need to know we’re still on the same page.”

  “Of course,” I replied, though I had no idea what page, or even what book, she was referring to. But since she seemed so worried about the election, I attempted some reassurance: “Don’t worry. Frank told me this morning Alex was up another point since Sunday. He’s been calling it the ‘Abbey’s bump bump.’” I pointed to the side of my head where I’d hit the piano bench for emphasis.

  “Oh? How wonderful,” she said, dropping her arm from around my waist. “I guess I should thank you again for making time today, then. Now that you’re so valuable to the campaign.” I detected an undercurrent of hardness in her silky-smooth voice.

  She paused, and I looked up to see the fabric store from which we’d emerged a few minutes ago. We had circled the block without my realizing it.

  And to my left? Her car and driver pulling up, as if she had willed them to do so.

  I walked home, hoping some fresh air would clear my head. I strolled by pizza places, cheap jewelry stores, and a crowded Whole Foods, and into the boutique-filled “gayborhood.” With May watching Sam, and Gloria at school, there was no rush—or any reason—to get home.

  I popped in to a baby boutique and bought Sam three complete outfits without once checking the price. Then, at an art supply store, I picked up some colored pencils, a few jars of glitter, and a Halloween I Spy book that I knew Gloria would love. And in yet another shop, I bought her a hot pink cashmere cardigan I had seen in the window.

  Back home at the apartment, I asked the doorman for the time. One o’clock—Sam would be napping. I gave the man my packages, then hailed a cab.

  As the taxi made its way from Rittenhouse Square and across the Schuylkill River to University City, I leaned back to enjoy the midday sun. We passed college dorms, fast-food restaurants, a new IMAX movie theater, and colonial homes turned frat houses, their large Greek letters marring their lovely facades. Then, as we moved farther away from the university, each block had less brick, ironwork, and grass and more chain-link fences, vinyl siding, and barred windows. We turned south off Walnut Street onto Fifty-Eighth, and the street scene became quieter, even the people sitting on stoops and porches appearing motionless.

  The cabbie pulled up to the address I’d given him, a low brick building that must have been a mid-century expansion of the now derelict stone church beside it. I swiped my credit card, punched in a tip, and then got out, stepping over broken bottles and sidewalk cracks as I moved toward the faca
de. The windows were wide but covered with iron bars. The red brick was dulled by pollution and bus exhaust, except for one cleaner, darker swatch in the shape of a cross, the emblem either stolen or removed in recent years. Now, a hand-painted sign stuck in the small patch of grass announced the “Holy Rosary Settlement House, established 1977,” the year I was born.

  I knocked a few times with my knuckles at first, then louder with the palm of my hand. I peered through the door’s mesh window and called “Hello?” but still no one came. A few minutes later, I saw a small plastic buzzer and pushed it hard. I was about to give up when a small black woman in a nun’s wimple walked by. I rapped on the door to get her attention and she almost jumped out of her bright green Crocs.

  “Heavens, you startled me,” she said as she pushed open the door and let me in.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I tried the buzzer, but no one came.”

  “That old thing hasn’t worked in years,” she said, smiling.

  “Well, that explains it.”

  “How can I help you? You don’t look like you are here for lunch.”

  “Well, no. I’m here to see Father Fergie. I’m Abbey van Holt.”

  “Follow me, child.”

  We walked down a hall lit by humming fluorescents and smelling of dust, bleach, and instant mashed potatoes. My heels clicked loudly while the nun moved silently. I tried to walk more softly.

  At the end of the hall, we turned into a cafeteria-like room where twenty or so people from the community were seated at long tables, some still finishing their lunches, others reading the paper, some just staring out the windows. At one table, two young mothers were chatting as their toddlers played with Legos, while at another, three elderly men sipped coffee from mismatched mugs. By the windows, a baby in a wash-faded sleeper rolled an empty water bottle back and forth while her mother talked on her phone. A grinning boy slightly younger than Gloria, eyes bright and mischievous, scooted from table to table playing a solitary game of hide-and-seek.

  “Stop that!” yelled a woman I took to be his grandmother, who was busy feeding a teenage girl in a motorized wheelchair.

  The nun placed a coffeepot on the table in front of the men, then turned to me. “Wait here,” she said.

  I smiled at the baby and took a seat at an empty table. Not knowing what to do, I pulled out my phone and pretended to be engrossed in an e-mail. I felt all eyes on me for a few seconds, but by the time I looked up, conversations and playing had resumed.

  “Mrs. van Holt! You came!”

  I stood up as Father Fergie came toward me with outstretched arms.

  “You seem surprised,” I said as I extended my hand.

  He ignored it and went in for a bear hug. “I am surprised,” he said, embracing me a little too long. “Cocktail party promises are usually broken.”

  “Well, here I am.”

  “Yes, you are,” he said, one arm still around my waist. “Welcome to my little piece of heaven.”

  He waved his hand proudly at the room as if he was introducing a play. Our tour was to begin, and off we went.

  The building consisted of the cafeteria/fellowship hall, an office, a smaller room with couches and TVs, and a supply room stacked with boxes of paper towels, off-brand diapers, and canned tomatoes. In the modest kitchen, two rusty ovens competed for space with a dented refrigerator, a six-burner stove, and a restaurant-sized dishwasher. The little nun was there, wiping down the biggest, blackest pot I’d ever seen.

  “How many meals do you cook in here?” I asked Fergie.

  “Three a day, except Mondays. Only one oven works, but we manage. But that’s why I need your help. If we could get Alex to help push our reclassification through, we could start getting HHS funding. Maybe even some grant money.”

  “And if he can’t?”

  “We’ll have to close down by December. If not sooner.”

  “But where will all these people—these children—eat?”

  He sank back on his heels, tilted his head to the ceiling, and quoted scripture: “Count it all joy when you meet trials, for you know that the testing of faith produces steadfastness. Let steadfastness have its full effect, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing.”

  He opened his eyes, watery and pale blue, and whispered, “The Good Lord won’t let us down. And hopefully, neither will your husband.”

  As he walked me out, I thought of the money I had spent that morning on the kids’ clothes and felt sick. We passed the room where the little baby played with her crinkly water bottle, and I thought of Sam and his wooden boat, his shelves of handmade BPA-free toys. And I couldn’t help but think of Jimmy, who insisted we give two hundred dollars to the Salvation Army every Christmas, even when we were broke, and even though he knew it would start an argument between us. Fergie’s words “lacking in nothing” were not meant to be ironic; he truly believed that through faith, Holy Rosary would persevere.

  At the door, Fergie paused to greet a homeless man he hadn’t seen in months. As he assured him there was still some lunch left, then sent him on his way, I opened my quilted Chanel purse, rifled around for my Tiffany pen, and grabbed my Tory Burch pink leather checkbook case.

  “Let’s give faith a little help, shall we?” I asked, scribbling.

  Then I pressed a ten-thousand-dollar check into his hand.

  That night as Sam and Gloria and I ate dinner at the kitchen island, Alex out campaigning again, I couldn’t help looking at my children and feeling lucky. Sam looked like an ad for baby cereal with his glossy pink cheeks and pudgy knees. And even though Gloria was tiny and completely indifferent to any food except high-fructose corn syrup and red dye number 4, she was strong and smart and hardly ever sick. After what I’d seen today, I knew I was lucky, and not just because I was living in a four-thousand-square-foot apartment that had been featured in the September 2010 issue of Architectural Digest.

  Gloria caught me looking at her and smiled. “Hi, Mommy,” she said.

  “Hi. Did you have a good day?”

  “Yep.”

  “Did you learn anything good?”

  “No.”

  “Do anything fun?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing happened at all?

  “Well, Blake Randleman threw up all over his shoes.”

  I wrinkled my nose, sorry I asked. “That must have been pretty gross.”

  “Gos,” mimicked Sam.

  All of a sudden, I felt an overwhelming sadness. Jimmy and Gloria liked to count all the words Sam could say: “Mama,” “Dada,” “sissy,” “baba” (for bottle), “bye-bye,” “ball,” “car,” “Pop” (for Miles), “toot,” “night-night,” and now “gross.” Sam had just said another word—his eleventh—and Jimmy wasn’t here to hear it.

  I was still thinking about Jimmy two hours later. The kids were in bed and I was on the long couch in the family room, alone, flipping through channels and sipping a glass of red wine. I wished I had someone to talk to, someone to tell about my visit to Holy Rosary.

  Before we had kids, Jimmy and I often met on our front porch to catch up after eight or ten hours apart. The summer we had moved into our new house, we had no outdoor furniture yet, so we sat on beach chairs and rested our feet on wooden crates Jimmy stole from work. We would watch the sun sink low, turning trees and houses and steeples into black cutouts.

  One night, when I was four months pregnant with Gloria, we were out later than usual, enjoying a cool breeze that kept the mosquitoes at bay. I had already finished the takeout dinner from our favorite Thai place, but, my pregnancy cravings not yet sated, I had moved on to a jar of salsa, using a tortilla chip as a spoon. I couldn’t get enough tomatoes that summer, eventually replacing salsa and red sauce with the real thing, sprinkling raw beefsteaks with salt and pepper and eating them like apples. Jimmy sipped on a beer while listening to me ramble on about baby names I liked.

  Out of the blue, off subject, and in his usual nonchalant way, he said something that
would change our lives forever.

  “I think I want to start my own business.”

  His words seemed to hang in the air. I stopped chewing. “Really? What kind?”

  “Cupcakes,” he deadpanned. “What do you think? Lawn care, maintenance, installation. But more than that. I want to design too. Using native plants and succulents and natural drainage systems. Maybe even tree care.”

  He paused and looked at me shyly. “Do you think that’s stupid?”

  I was stunned. Jimmy had never seemed the creative type. But come to think of it, he was always sketching ideas for neighbors, always offering his boss suggestions for a better plant, a prettier tree line. And though we’d lived in this house for only six weeks, our yard was already beginning to look like Longwood Gardens.

  “I don’t think it’s stupid,” I said. “I think it’s a great idea. But do you need a degree? Or at least a certificate or something?”

  “Well, yes and no. I’ve been in the business for ten years. I’ve probably installed a thousand new lawns. But I would need to finish college and maybe get a master’s.”

  “You could do that. They have night programs.”

  “Yeah, but it’s a big time commitment. And money. And you were hoping to cut back to part-time with the baby coming and all…”

  I attempted to wipe the sprinkling of chips off my stomach and sat up straighter.

  “You’re right,” I said sarcastically. “Wife and kids ruin everything. The bastards.”

  I expected a funny remark back, but Jimmy said nothing. He took off his cap, wiped his brow, and put it back on. He then reached over, took the jar from me, and put it on the ground. He pulled me up to standing and lifted my face to his. Our bellies touched.

  “That’s just the thing, Ab,” he said, his eyes shining in the porch light. “I’m going to have a kid. Can you believe it? Me, a dad. And I have you. Right now, I feel like I could do anything. Make it a real success. Even if I have to pull every weed from here to Pittsburgh.”